The Funeral and The Empty Shop
by LadyKailitha
Summary: John's reactions in the days following the Fall leading up to the return of the great detective told in two parts.
1. The Funeral

When I woke up this morning, there were two things I couldn't believe. One, that Sherlock was dead and two that I was having an argument with Mycroft.

"Look, I don't care who you have to kill to get it, I want a god damn military honor guard for the funeral." I was pacing back and forth in the living room, still in the rumpled clothes I worn the day before. There was still blood on it. His.

"It cannot be done, John. He's not some head of State. And if I pull this type of thing for him. Other officials will start demanding it for their fallen family members." Mycroft's voice on the other end was firm but sympathetic.

"Then tell them that it was a a post mortum commendation for service to the Crown."

"If you think for one minute that I am going to use the Adler case for this you are sadly mistaken!" Mycroft roared.

"You don't have to mention the case! Just that he did a service for the Crown. Hell! Make up something! You're clever enough. Dammit, Mycroft you owe it to him!" This was met with silence on the other end. It stretched out for a long moment and I almost thought that the line had been disconnected when he spoke again.

"You said that your old company would do?" came the final reply.

"Yes. The 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."

"It'll be done." And that's when he truly hung up on me. To be honest I don't know where I got there energy to fight with him. Maybe because it was so important to me. I slumped on the chair and leaned my head back as tried to choke back tears.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I began flipping through the contacts on my phone. I came across the number I was looking for. I sighed as I dialed the number.

I waited painfully as it rang.

"Hello Dr. Ella Stanton's office."

"Hello, I would like to make an appointment." I gulped.

"And are you a current patient or a referral?" Said the helpful voice.

"I- uh I'm not sure. I use to be one of her patients, not sure if I'm still on her list."

"Okay, sir. May I get your name?" She sounded as though she was use to dealing with the terminally slow.

"John Watson."

"Okay Mr. Watson-"

"_Doctor_ Watson." He corrected her automatically.

"Alright Dr. Watson, we still have you on file. But the next opening isn't for another month. Is this an emergency?"

That surprised him. He didn't know that therapists _had_ emergencies.

"No." He supposed suicidal might be an emergency but he wasn't that. Not yet.

"Would you prefer a morning or afternoon appointment?"

John thought about it for a moment. "Afternoon please."

"How's 2:15? Or we have 3:50."

"2:15 is fine."

"Alright, thank you and have a nice day."

He put his phone down and stared off into space for a bit. He was startled by the sound of it going off.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Greg."

"Oh hey." I had been expecting his call.

"So the funeral is this Saturday. What's this I hear you're handling it instead of Mycroft?"

"Well we discussed it and I knew him best. Better then anyone. Mycroft wouldn't know who to send the announcements to."

"Oh. Of course." He paused for a moment mulling something over. "I'm having my team show up in their Blues."

"That's awfully nice of you. My old army company will be doing an honor guard." I told him.

"Cooie!" he whistled. "How did you manage that?"

"I told Mycroft that he had to do it for his brother." He sat in stunned silence for a bit.

"That'd do it, alright." he said. I could almost see him nodding appreciatively. "Anderson and Donavan will be there."

"Why?" was my terse reply.

"Payback." I could almost hear the smile in his voice. I smiled too. Yes. It would be fitting. Make them come and see the people that respected Sherlock, that still believed in him.

"Who's going to be the pallbearers?" He asked, shaking me from my reverie.

"You, me, Henry Knight, Angelo from the cafe and couple of his other clients. People who know he can't be fraud because they came to him and he solved their cases."

"Right then. See you Saturday." This time after hanging up I held the phone in hand and tapped my chin with it.

I didn't know what to do with myself. I couldn't turn on the telly or pick up the paper. His name was still be splashed all over the news. I picked up a book but after awhile I realized that I hadn't turned the page once. I don't think I even remembered a single line.

I threw the book down in disgust. But then I just stared off into space. I still believe that the only reason I ate over the next few days is that Mrs. Hudson forced me to.

The day of the funeral I dressed in my dress uniform with the red and black. My captain pins emblazoned on my epaulets. I watched the Met show off their dress blues as more came out in force then I would have thought. The Super Intendant he heard tried to prevent them coming out in their Blues but somehow Lestrade had won him over. Donavan and Anderson looked decidedly uncomfortable. And I remember thinking that Sherlock would have liked that.

I sat numbly as people spoke of Sherlock. Mycroft, Lestrade and couple others. But I couldn't get up there. My voice had gone raw from the days of crying. I think Mrs. Hudson got up. I don't remember. I remember walking with Sherlock's coffin as we passed under the raised sabers of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I remember setting the coffin down. I even remember placing the first white rose on the coffin.

What I don't remember is making it home. Many people stopped by after offering condolences. But it washed over me as it started to rain. It poured for weeks. It was like the world mourned with me.

A month came and went and I found myself in her office.

"Why today?" she asked.

"You want to hear me say it?" I asked her incredulously.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment." She nodded.

"Do you read the papers?" I asked her. I stared at her in frustration.

"Sometimes."

"And you watch telly?" I asked her nodding. I pointed at my seat. "You know why I'm here."

"I'm here because-" I stopped and closed my eyes.

"What happened, John?"

I opened my eyes and fought the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. "Sherlock-" I closed my eyes again. I couldn't say it.

"You need to say it. You need to get it out." Her voice was calm and caring.

I nodded. It was was I was here after all. "My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... is dead."

We talked for awhile and when the session was nearly over she said, "The stuff that you wanted to say... you didn't say it."

"Yeah," I breathed.

"Say it now." She told me.

"No," I told her shaking my head. "I'm sorry. I can't." She sat watching me until my hour was up. But I couldn't bring myself to tell her. To tell her about the unbearable ache in my chest.

Afterward Mrs. Hudson came in a taxi and we went to the grave.

We stood at the grave after placing the white flowers for a bit and then she spoke.

"All his stuff, all the science equipment, I left it all in boxes I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it a school. Would you-"

"I can't go back to the flat again. Not at the moment." She laced her arm through mine. "I'm angry." I told her.

"It's okay John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. The marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns after one in the morning."

"Yeah," I agreed.

But she went on. "Bloody specimens in the fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yeah." I said trying to stem the tide but it coming.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with his carryings on!"

"Yes, yes. I-I-I'm not actually _that_ angry. Okay?" I finally got her to calm down.

"Okay. I'll leave you alone to ah- you know." She put her finger to her lips as she fought back tears.

I waited until she was far enough way so she wouldn't hear me, hear what I was going to say.

"Um..." I started but had to fight back tears of my own. "You." I swallowed hard. "You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um..." I paused as I was about to say something painful. "There were times I didn't even think you were human." Looking down I continued. "But let me tell you this: You were..." I fought, looking for the right words. "The best man. And the most human- human being... that I've even known. And one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So..." and at the risk of sounding childish, I added. "There." I took a deep breath. It was becoming harder to say what I need to. I looked back at Mrs. Hudson and then stepped forward to touch the grave stone.

"I was so alone... and I owe so much." I sighed and walked away. But I had to come back.

"But please. There's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead." my voice cracked on the last word. Tears stung my eyes. "Would you do that? Just for me? Just stop it." I pointed at the tombstone. "Stop this," I cried. The tears that I had fought all day came pouring down my face. I took a deep breath a stood at attention and then did an about face and marched back to Mrs. Hudson.

I dropped her off at Baker St. and carried on to the hotel I was staying until I could find somewhere else to live. I laid on the bed and cried.

Cried until every last tear had been cried out of me and drifted into an uneasy sleep. The first of many nightmares started that night. It was always the same. I was chasing Sherlock through the London fog and just as I would catch up, I would notice the ledge and I would grab at his coat as he jumped and I could feel the wool slip through my fingers as he fell to the street below. Then I would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming his name.

I felt so weak. So helpless. I looked out the window and then grabbed my cane to go for a walk. My limp was back. And worse then ever. It was a constant reminder of the days with the brightest, bravest man.

I don't know how long it took me after that first session, to say his name out loud again. But even my friends knew better then to mention his name to me.

There was only one constant in all this. She was stronger then I was. I thought she would be a wreck too. But she had this quiet solidarity that strengthened me. And that was Molly. Dear sweet Molly Hooper. She would come over some times and bring over Chinese and just talk.

She would prattle on about her cat, the latest body that came through her morgue, how Lestrade was doing. Just little things. She would let me cry on her shoulder when things got to much to bare.

She even stayed in contact with me after I moved out to the country.

Three years would pass like a whirlwind. Out of the blue I received a call from Lestrade.

"John? John Watson? Formerly of Baker St?" came the voice on the end.

"Greg? Greg Lestrade?" I couldn't have been more shocked.

"Oh thank god. You're like my third John Watson, I've called today."

"I didn't know that there was that many of us." I cracked.

"Nice to see you still have your sense of humor John." Came the dry, not amused reply.

I rolled my eyes. "What do you want Greg? I have patients waiting." I looked back at them and waved, mouthing "Another minute."

"How would you fancy coming down to London for bit?" I turned back to the phone shocked.

I folded one arm in front of chest propping up the arm that held the phone.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me back, why?" I was starting to get seriously annoyed.

"We think he might be back."

He didn't have to say who _he_ was. There was only one 'he'.

"He's dead Greg. I've come to terms with that."

"So explain to me who would your old landlady would be hiding in your old flat."

I was about to say anyone but that wasn't true. Mrs. Hudson wasn't a stupid woman. "I'll be on the next train to London." I turned to my patients.

"I'm sorry family emergency," I told them as grabbed my coat and ran out the door.

The train was on it's way before I thought about what I was doing. But I couldn't turn around. Not when there could be a chance. Even if it was .000001 chance. It was still a chance and that's all that mattered


	2. The Empty Shop

I walked along the streets of London, returning for the first time in two years. My therapist didn't count. I'd show up, talk for two hours, and leave. That wasn't the same. I kept blinders on. But now I was free to look around to see those streets I use to know. Some things had changed. They always do. But for the most part things had stayed the same; almost as though the city was holding its breath for something. Just like me.

I walked past a bobby on his beat. I shook my head. I could still remember the look on Lestrade's face when I told him that I was leaving – the look of pity, understanding, and something a bit like regret. I think he hoped that I would take over for Sherlock, helping him with cases. But I couldn't.

I tried. The first crime scene I went to, I broke down in tears. It took all the will I had to not run out of there. I was useless to everyone. Even Harry was shocked about the transformation that had come over me and she hadn't seen much in the eighteen months I was with Sherlock.

I had retired to the country to practice medicine, away from people who knew who I was – who I was when I was with him. Away from the battlefield. My therapist still wanted me to write in my blog, but how many times can one write "set a broken bone today" before running screaming mad?

I couldn't even sit at the computer without breaking down into sobs. Everyone in town called me "the sad bachelor doctor". Most of the older women kept trying to set me up with daughters, nieces, granddaughters…. Just about any girl they could think of got thrown my direction.

But they weren't smart enough, clever enough. I would get frustrated and storm off. And no one could tell what I wanted, what it was that drove me to this hell. They even started throwing social rejects my way. The last one didn't amuse me at all; they were starting to think I was gay. They had sent a younger man.

It was good to get away. I looked up at the sky and wondered what it was that brought me here. Sure, there was the call from Lestrade that said that there was suspicious activity happening at the old flat, but that shouldn't have concerned me. I didn't- shouldn't care who Mrs. Hudson had taken to replace... I closed my eyes against the pain. I couldn't even finish the thought. It hurt so much. I wondered sometimes if my heart still beat. I even took my pulse once, just to be sure.

I guess the reason I came running at Lestrade's call is the thought that maybe he had heard my plea that lonely day two years ago and come back. If anyone could come back from the dead it was Sherlock. The ache intensified and I had to stop to catch my breath.

I looked up to find myself standing across the street from 221B Baker St. I glanced up at the window but it was silent and cold as the grave. I sighed, and nearly jumped out of my skin when a hand touched my shoulder. I whirled around, my own hand reaching for the gun that hadn't been there in years.

"Whoa, steady there," Lestrade said, removing his hand from my shoulder to defend himself.

"Greg?" I asked as I realized my mistake. "Sorry. This place just has me on edge, I guess." I stuck my hands in my pockets. Seeing him again brought back painful memories. Memories that threatened to flood my consciousness.

"How have you been?" I asked as I moved us away from Baker St. I couldn't bear to stand there anymore. I was afraid someone might recognize me and ask me how I was.

"It's been hell dealing with the fallout. Sorting out fact from fiction has been a pain in the ass. But I think that you coming out and saying that you believed Sherlock to be the genuine article has helped stem the tide of bad press. Even with that it's harder without the subject himself proving them wrong at every turn."

I just nodded. I hadn't told anyone about the phone call I'd gotten before the fall. I ignored what he told me because I was getting him back for ignoring me. A half smile came back at the memory. It was the first time that I had even gotten that since... that day.

"So really why did you call me back, Greg? I'm useless to you." Lestrade just smiled.

"Useless in every way but one." He grasped my shoulder and let go.

"Do you really think he's back?" I couldn't breathe; the very thought started my still and broken heart beating again.

"You know him better than anyone. I'm hoping you could tell me." He hailed a cab and let me in first.

"Scotland Yard, STAT!" he told the driver.

Soon we were in his office and Sgt. Donavan was giving me dark looks through the glass. I couldn't understand what she held against me. Hell, I could never figure out what she had against Sherlock. Other than him being a stuck up, arrogant sod, that is. Well, I guess I'd never forgiven her for being part of the machine that brought Sherlock down, so maybe it was simply mutual.

Lestrade closed the blinds but I could still feel the hatred through them. Trying to shrug it off, I went to the desk and sorted through the papers and photos on his desk. He moved to sit behind it and watched me as I went through the whole file.

"What do you think? Is it him?" he asked as I set it back down.

"Oh god," I told him as I ran my hands over my face. "I want to say yes, but I don't trust myself. What if I'm... well, my therapist calls it projecting. Forcing my will on it because I want him back so badly."

I sat down and shook my head. "I can't do this Greg. I'm sorry." I sat there for a while, the quiet buzz of the people outside Lestrade's office barely piercing my cloud of despair. I stood up without a word and walked to the door.

"It's okay, it was a long shot anyway," was the last thing I heard him say as I walked out of his office. I tried to make my way out but Sgt. Donavon blocked my way.

"So it's him, isn't it? The freak's back?" I looked her straight in the eye and said something I should have said that first day with the lady in pink.

"Piss off."

I shouldered past her. She gasped and called me back. She even called a couple officers to stop me. I looked up at them and glared. I held their gaze, but before she could reach me they moved out of my way. I could hear her scream, "What'd you do that for?" as they blocked her path, and a true smile spread across my face. The bravery of soldier still counted for something after all.

I hailed a taxi and made my way to Baker St. It called me back. I looked at the shop across the street, still vacant after the explosion. They had repaired it of course, but no one dared to live across from Sherlock Holmes.

I went up to the door of the flat that had been my home and reached up to knock, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I turned to walk away – and that's when the door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

"John? John, is that you?"

It took all the courage I could muster to turn around.

"Yep. Yep, that's me." She held out her arms and I stepped into them. She invited me in for tea and I thought that I might get some information out of her.

We chatted, but when I asked her a direct question she became deaf and would cleverly change the topic back to me. I didn't want to talk about me. Talking about me meant thinking about the emptiness. I couldn't call it living – I hadn't lived. I couldn't even call it surviving – surviving was what I did in the war. Finally it was time to go. The sun was starting to set and I needed to catch the last train back.

As I was leaving, she stopped me. In her hand was my pistol. She handed it back to me just as a shot rang out and pierced the upstairs window. It had come across the street. I checked the magazine; it was full. I looked over to Mrs. Hudson but she was shooing me toward the empty building.

"Call Lestrade!" I yelled at her, but she pointed and there were cop cars screeching toward me. I ran for the building and saw the culprit trying make it out the back. I dived for his feet as someone else hit him from above. I could hear the bone in his leg break as the two opposing forces brought him to ground.

I got up, put my knee on his back and held my gun to his head. "Don't move," I muttered, though I knew he couldn't without great pain. The ache in my chest had subsided a bit, with the rush of adrenaline.

Breathing hard, I looked around for my accomplice but he had vanished. I heard the sound of many boots hurrying behind me. Without looking I knew it was Lestrade and his men.

"How do we know it was him on the ground and not the freak's friend here? For all we know, freak could be contagious." I rolled my eyes and stood up to face the sergeant. I stared her down like I had that afternoon. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"God, really?" I sighed. "I didn't fire my gun – there will be no powder on my hands. Now, before you say that I could have used gloves, may I point out that the gun I have is a pistol?" I held it up for her to see but gave her no time to object. "The gun he's carrying is a sniper rifle. Which is the type of slug you'll pull out of the wall in the flat. I have an alibi. I was coming out of having tea with Mrs. Hudson when the shot rang out. And lastly, what the hell? Why would I fire on my old flat?"

She just shrugged. "How would I know?" I moved toward her and she flinched.

"Donavan, shut it." Lestrade told her as he looked at me. "So this is the guy then?" he nodded at the man at my feet.

"Yep. So... um... I'll let you take care of the clean-up, then?" I said, stuffing the gun in the back of my trousers. Lestrade waved me off. "Oh, and I'd call an ambulance. I think his leg is broken. Wouldn't be able to tell for sure without an x-ray, of course."

"How'd that happen?" came the angry reply. I just shrugged. I didn't know what to tell him. That there's another person roaming around knocking villains over? He wouldn't believe me, and even if he did, I didn't want to get the other man in trouble. I was pretty sure it was a man, too. I just wish I had gotten a better look at him. I wanted to thank him.

When I walked out on to the street, there were a lot of people milling about. I looked for Mrs. Hudson but couldn't see her. She had probably gone back into the apartment once the cops arrived. And then I saw him. His coat turned up to his cheek bones, looking all cool. My breath caught in my chest. And one word escaped, barely a whisper. I knew who had helped me capture the shooter.

"Sherlock."

I fell to my knees. I couldn't believe it. Somehow, someway, he was alive. He must have seen me fall because he called my name and was skidding to his knees in front of me.

"Are you are alright? You aren't hurt?" He grabbed my shoulders to steady me as I swayed.

"You're alive." A tear ran down my cheek as I grasped his elbow and shoulder, touching him to make sure I wasn't dreaming.

"No, John. I'm home." And he drew me into his arms. I knew later we'd have a proper row but now it didn't matter. I didn't even care how he'd survived or why he took so long to get to home me. All that mattered is that my best friend was alive. When I looked up, there was no one else around. Not even neighbors milling about gossiping.

"Um... Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He was grasping me so hard it seemed like he was holding on to a life line. It seemed that he had needed me as much as I need him. That brought another tear to my eye.

"People are going to talk." He stood up, giving me his know-it-all grin, and after brushing off his knees held out his hand to me.

"It's what they do; they have capacity for little else." I took his hand and he helped me up. He refused to let go as he led the way back to the flat. The cops had dug the slug out of the wall and had cleared out some time before.

He let go as he flopped on the couch and hollered for Mrs. Hudson to bring up tea. He promptly fell asleep. I went down to tell Mrs. Hudson to forget the tea and grabbed an extra blanket. She just smiled at me. She hadn't even started the tea.

"It's not decent." She admonished. I smiled.

"It never is." I walked up to flat and put the blanket over Sherlock's sleeping form.

His being asleep meant the case, whatever it was, was over. Judging from the circles around his eyes and the gaunt expression, he hadn't slept or eaten much these past two years. Then again, I hadn't either. I pulled the pistol out and set it on the table. I tapped the table a couple times trying to decide what to do with it. I looked around and realized the apartment hadn't been touched other then my things were missing of course. I went to the drawer Sherlock kept his revolver and there it was. I half smiled and went to put my pistol next to it. Back where it belonged.

I sat down in the chair next to couch and I found that nothing held my attention quite like his chest raising and falling. I'm not sure how long I watched him sleep before I dozed off myself, but the light hit my eyes just right and I woke, squinting. I yawned and stretched. The blanket I had put on Sherlock the night before fell to the ground. I looked over at the couch and he was gone.

I jumped up and was about to dash off to find him when I heard voices coming up the stairs.

"I don't understand! Why you are dragging me back here? Why couldn't you tell me everything at the Yard?" Lestrade whined.

"Because John was still asleep when I woke up!" I knew that voice as well as my own. Sherlock continued. "And I would rather explain it once." I sat back down in relief. It hadn't been a dream. He was alive.

"John," he called, "You awake?"

"Just. Was about to get some tea started," I told him and stood up to face him. He looked a bit better than he did last night, with the bags under his eyes gone – though the gauntness was still there, and would probably remain for quite some time.

"I'll get it," Lestrade said, but just then Mrs. Hudson came up with a freshly brewed pot and four cups and set it on the table. Once everyone was settled, Sherlock started his tale. That day up on the roof Moriarty had told him that unless he jumped, he had snipers trained on all three of us and they would kill us. He had no choice. He knew he could probably tell me to take cover but that wouldn't help Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson.

He had gotten Molly to help him with the escape plan so we'd all be safe, but something had gone wrong; the sniper trained on me had seen him leave. Though his master was dead, his order was still standing – even though Sherlock had survived. I think it was because Sherlock was still living that even though he'd had done what Moriarty asked he had somehow survived. The would-be assassin, named Sebastian Moran, chased him across Europe. France, Russia, Italy. Wherever Sherlock would stop for breath Moran stayed one step behind, always dogging his every move.

In Russia he took care of Lestrade's would-be assassin. In Italy, he took care of Mrs. Hudson's. Moran, on the other hand, would chase me to the ends of the earth as long as Sherlock lived. But he kept slipping through Sherlock's fingers. Finally he set up a trap. He had Mrs. Hudson pretend that he had come back to Baker St., which ironically had alerted Lestrade. He had been keeping an eye on Mrs. Hudson as a favor to me.

He had even snuck in to Lestrade's office to see what he had – that afternoon to be exact. I had assumed that Lestrade had the files laid out for me, and Lestrade had thought I had spread them out. He had been hiding in the closet listening to us the whole time.

The one thing he didn't count on was me being on the scene to take out Moran. But he flashed me another one of his genuine smiles and said, "I should have known I could count on you, John."

I couldn't stay mad at him. I wanted to. I wanted a have a row. I wanted to punch that smug face, but he had saved my life and I didn't even know I was in danger.

"I've just got one question," Lestrade popped up while Sherlock and I were having a staring contest. Sherlock broke off eye contact and turned to him.

"Just the one? I must say I'm impressed, Lestrade."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I get John. He's your best friend. I even understand Mrs. Hudson. She takes care of you and in return you make sure she's safe. But why me? Why go after me at all? Especially since I was part of the group that came to arrest you. As far he could tell I had turned on you. He wouldn't have known otherwise, right?"

Sherlock whirled around and stood in front of the fire place, his hands in his coat pockets. "Because he knew that, like John, you actually had seen me work. I explain to you how I get to my deductions. While you may have doubts, somewhere in the back of your mind you knew those doubts were unfounded." He smiled his condescending smile. Lestrade nodded.

"And you are the primary source for my cases. If Mrs. Hudson and John were the friend and the caretaker, respectively, you would be my employer, someone I could rely on to get me cases. To keep me sane. You would have had to go, too."

"Right."

That had settled just about everything, so Lestrade left to file his report and Mrs. Hudson left to take care of the tea things. Sherlock closed the door behind them.

"John! John!" He called as I walked away. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to hit him. He expected things to return to the way they were. I couldn't go back. It hurt too much. He had hurt me too much for me to go running back. I had my pride.

"Please don't leave me John!" His voice cracked. I whirled around, face flushing, heart pounding.

"John, please I can't live without you." His eyes teared up. That did it. I hit him with everything I had.

"You managed it for three years." I fumed as he fell to the ground. He looked up at me shocked.

"I thought you were dead!" I screamed. I balled up both fists. Hot angry tears streamed down my face. I resisted the urge to kick him while I was at it.

I pounded my chest with my fist. "I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to do, after you di- after you left me!" I pushed my fists into my eyes trying to force back the tears that I shed. He didn't deserve my tears.

He scrambled up and grabbed my arms. I shook him off and he grabbed my arm to prevent me from leaving.

"Let go." I growled.

"Not until you let me explain." I didn't look up. I stared at the hand that held me bound. It was pale and the knuckles and nails had gone white. He was still very strong. I knew if I looked up I would have to face those eyes and my resolve would crumble.

"You explained it well enough." I tried to sound angry but my voice cracked and squeaked.

"Clearly not, John." His voice was sad. "You're still leaving." I looked up then. I couldn't avoid it any longer. In those eyes, I saw all the pain he'd been hiding for years. From even before I met him. The pain he'd carried with him all his life. I saw the eyes of a man who had been through hell.

His eyes reflected my own. The nightmare I had been through. The war, his faked death.

"John, I swear to god I wanted to tell you so many times." I struggled against his grip but half heartedly this time.

I couldn't believe him. But I knew my heart already had. I told it to shut up. But tears were starting to form again.

"A text." I pleaded, searching those eyes for any hint that he understood the torment I had faced. "Even if it didn't _say _anything would have been enough. Just the hope that you were still alive-" my voiced cracked but I pressed on "alive would have made these three years livable."

"I couldn't use my phone, they were tracking it." I shook my head but he just gripped my arm tighter. "I tried to send notes to you but Mycroft kept intercepting them." He pulled me close to him as if he was telling me a secret. "And even Molly did her part to make sure you never knew I was still alive." He let go of my arm sure I wouldn't leave now. How could I? He said he tried to tell he was alive. I had believe him then. My heart did a little victory dance.

Tears continued to stream down my face. My knees buckled and I started to go down but Sherlock grabbed me again, this time to steady me.

"Please John come back. I need you." I put my arms around that narrow waist and held on for dear life.

He wrapped his arms around me and whispered. "You accused me of living without you but that wasn't living John. The only thing that kept me going these past three years is that you were safe. When ever I despaired I thought of the life I was saving was yours and I could stand again. Please John come back to me. Come back to Baker St.. I can't stand in a world without you by my side." I could feel his tears on my head as he held me close.

I nodded. "But you have to understand something first. I'm not sure I can explain it accurately. But I'll try." Pushed him back a bit to look up.

"Are you able to stand on your own now?"

I nodded again, "Yeah." He let me go and started to walk down the street. I fell into step next him. Just like I always did. It was like breathing.

"Whenever you're ready John." Sherlock was ever the impatient one. These three years hadn't changed that.

I cleared my throat. I started and then stopped again. I took a deep breath and then blurted out, "I love you." I felt blush rise to my cheeks. He stopped to face me.

"Not in the way that you think. Hell not in the way everyone thinks." He cocked his head to the side and then resumed walking beside me.

"In what way then?" he asked. His voice seemed devoid of interest and it made it hard to go on. But I had to. I had to get this out. He had to understand.

"I've never been able to pin that down exactly. I thought that you were just a friend. A best friend, the best a man could have but you're more than that Sherlock." He nodded.

"Then I thought that you were like the brother I never had. But I thought about my relationship with my sister and your relationship with Mycroft and that didn't seem to fit either."

"You realize that those aren't typical sibling relationships, right?" He asked.

"So my therapist told me. But it didn't matter. You were dearer to me then my own flesh and blood. And then I thought hit upon it. I thought about my military days. It was the closest I got to an answer. You were a brother in arms. Well, still are I guess." Sherlock looked surprised, so I rushed to explain.

"You watched my back and I watched yours. We had complete trust in each after two days of meeting. Two days Sherlock! Didn't you ever wonder why?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I question why something worked? I don't question why my cell works or my laptop. Why should I question how well you fit in my life?"

I laughed then. A mirthless laugh but a laugh nonetheless.

"Damn Mycroft but he explained it beautifully. He said that when you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battle of the streets." Sherlock gave his appreciative little frown. I blushed and tried to continue "That by being with you I got to relive the rush of being in combat."

"Hence why when I said 'dangerous'..."

"I came running, yeah."

"So you love me and that's thing I have to understand before you'll come back?" He wasn't sure he understood why it was so important. But he knew if it was important to me he'd try.

"Yeah well. The reason you have to understand, is this: if anything happens to you again..." I stopped walking and looked up to his eyes. "I'll kill myself. You're that important."

He stopped realizing I had and turned to me, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye.

"John, please don't do that." He didn't understand. "There are other people that would miss you. You are well liked and well respected."

"Don't care." I told him stubbornly. "I know that astronomy doesn't interest you but you are the sun that I revolve around and if it was snuffed out a second time I would kill myself. I'd follow you to hell. I don't care."

He pulled me into another embrace and I clutched his coat, crying into his scarf. I had been doing a lot of crying that day. But this was different kind of cry. The effect bled away a lot of the pain of our separation, not all. Nothing could erase it all but this came close.

"I would tear apart heaven and earth if anything happened to you." He told me. "They would probably have to lock me up."

I remembered what happened to the American that hurt Mrs. Hudson and knew that if he went that mad after someone hurt someone like her, I could well imagine that no man that hurt me wouldn't survive to tell the tale. Well... maybe they would so that he could continue to torture them.

"What a pair we make." I said, pulling away just enough to look him the eyes.

"The only one of it's kind," he replied. I had actually stopped caring what people thought about us as we held each other. We needed the other to keep us sane. That's just what the universe decreed that Sherlock and I were joined at the hip. To halves of the same soul. It didn't matter if we were both male. I clenched my hands from his coat and buttoned it up.

"I don't want you getting cold because of my tears." I told him when he laughed at me for doing it.

We called a cab and he made me pay of course. He explained that Mycroft still held his purse strings. I sighed and paid him. We lit out on Baker St. just as Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

"Did you convince him, Sherlock? Is he coming home?" I winced, I had forgotten that more then just Sherlock would want me back here.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson. But he won't be staying here tonight." I looked up in surprise. He smiled at me. "He has to go and arrange things. He can't just vanish, he has his own practice he has to move."

To move he said. Not close down. He wanted me to continue my practice. He had changed. At least enough to not expect unreasonable things from me. For tonight anyway. I didn't doubt that things would go back to the way they were before once it settled that I wasn't going to walk out on him.

"But you will stay for dinner won't you?"

She looked so pathetic, how could I say no? We had a lovely dinner filled with laughter and stories. Sherlock regaled us with his stories about being on the run. I told them funny stories about my patients. But too soon the sun was setting and I had to go.

But before I left I hugged Mrs. Hudson and told her, "Don't worry, I'll be back by the end of the week."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "Really, John? I thought it would take you till the middle of next week at the earliest."

I smiled at him and said, "I have something to look forward to." I winked and walked out, coming full circle to our first meeting. I could hear him laugh as I walked to the curb to hail a cab that would take to me the train station and home.

I thought for a second and looked back at the flat. As I got into the cab I realized that I had left home and was merely going to place I currently resided.

By weeks end I was back on Baker St. where I belonged.

I breathed in the familiar scents for a moment at the bottom of those steps and then I heard gun shots and went dashing up there.

"Sherlock!"

"Bored!" was the reply. I took the gun away from him. I removed the magazine and emptied the chamber.

"You can't keep doing that you know?" I told him but he smiled. I smiled back. I had to admit even if it was only to myself it had kept me from be too saccharine about moving back with Sherlock.

We settled in for the evening, with Sherlock curled up on the couch and me with a book on my chair. And then there came knock on the door. We looked at each other and smile crossed both our faces.

"Let hope it's interesting," he couldn't keep the smile off his face. He tried.

"Don't you dare smile like that in front of the client." I told him putting down my book to answer the door.

"It's good to have you back." he said just before I opened the door.

I nodded, not trusting my voice just then. It was good to be back


End file.
